


The Finality Problem

by Trobadora



Series: Sherlockiana [7]
Category: A Study in Emerald - Neil Gaiman
Genre: M/M, Story: The Adventure of the Dying Detective, Story: The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21724423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: For a man not used to frailty or illness it is a peculiar experience to be faced with visitors while abed in one's nightclothes. How much more peculiar, then, to greet an opponent in such a fashion!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/James Moriarty
Series: Sherlockiana [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/908733
Comments: 12
Kudos: 19
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2019, More Holmes





	The Finality Problem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Keenir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keenir/gifts).



For a man not used to frailty or illness it is a peculiar experience to be faced with visitors while abed in one's nightclothes. How much more peculiar, then, to greet an opponent in such a fashion!

Imagine, if you will, a gloomy sick-room, illuminated only by the yellowish haze of morning through a single window. No lamp has been lit.

There is a man abed here. His face is gaunt, and very pale. His cheeks are reddened. His lips are dry and peeling. There are crusts around his mouth. 

This is James Moriarty, the famous scientific detective. You would not know him now from the illustrations one can find whenever the more sensational papers report on his successes.

Half an hour ago he presented an even more pitiful picture. His limbs trembled with weakness even as he screamed murder at his landlady. He threw the teacup she offered him, hot tea splattering against the wall, miraculously missing all of the books in the room. He mumbled and raved – of emerald blood and seashells, of buzzing voices speaking terrible truths. He attempted feebly to prostrate himself before the fireplace as if it were one of the Ancient Ones themselves, as if it were the Queen. Begging to be spared – though spared what, he did not say.

Now, Moriarty is sitting up. His eyes, despite his haggard appearance, are alert, and he is reading a newspaper. It is the Albion Star. The advertisement on the page reads:

> Wilkie's _Universal Anodyne!_ Fear of wide spaces? Fear of the sea? Fear of small rooms? Fear of sleep? Whether it be the TERROR of the Unknown Future or the HORROR of Past Grievances – try our MOONSTONE SOLUTION to cure what ails you! Available now for the first time in London!

  
Moriarty is restless. He is angry. He does not appreciate being thought insane, his mind broken by one of those above mere mortal men. He has conversed with the Queen, Victoria Gloriana herself, and kept his equanimity. To think that any lesser thing might affect him so! He is, in fact, quite offended. He is determined to lure his prey and exact revenge.

The trap he has constructed is nearly perfect, baited with none other than himself.

There are footsteps on the staircase outside. Moriarty's eyes flash alert: these steps do not belong to his landlady, the long-suffering Mrs Hudson. He is not expecting another, not yet – his prey will not arrive before evening.

When the door opens, the newspaper is on the floor, and James Moriarty is lying down, eyes almost fully closed, watching only through his eyelashes.

"It is a dangerous habit," says the man suddenly standing in Moriarty's bedroom – the man he has been pursuing for nearly a decade – as he pulls the door shut behind him, "to finger loaded firearms between one's sheets, particularly if one has foregone sustenance for ... sixty-two hours, is it now?"

Moriarty opens his eyes. "Sixty-six, to be precise." The answer is calm. Observe, though, the roughness of his voice: his throat is dry. He has not spoken but to scream, these last three days. It is taking a toll. He clears his throat, painfully.

He has always believed that certain ascetic practices – while not desirable as a permanent habit – are an eminently efficient method of concentrating the mind. He is not incorrect. Yet there are limits to that method, which he is now forced to acknowledge. The distraction of foregoing drink may be mitigated by a judicious swallow of water every now and then, but it is doing nothing for the effects of foregoing tea.

He has not gone without tea for as long as he can remember. He finds it irksome. Yet despite the effect, he remains alert and capable. Ready.

He is proud of this.

Now, Moriarty draws out his revolver. The visitor observed correctly: he has been holding it beneath his sheets. He holds it above the bedclothes, sits up again.

He expected something. The great detective is known to be ill: someone needs must attempt to take advantage. It is a law of human behaviour he has relied upon time and again. Yet Moriarty did not expect the man before him. 

This is the tall man once known as Sherry Vernet, once known as Sigerson, who lured Prince Franz Drago to his death nine years ago. This is the man who stood leaning against the mantelpiece as his companion butchered the prince, who watched as green blood flowed, splattered. This is the man who wrote 'Rache' on the wall in letters of emerald, his own signature.

The famous detective delights in surprise: this is widely known. He has said so, in many an interview. Is he delighted now? He might be, were it not for the disruption to his plans.

Were it not for what he knows this man's visit to mean.

Moriarty considers his visitor. What does he see? A tall and excessively lean person with sharp, piercing eyes, whose nose, chin and cheekbones protrude forward. Strong features not easily obscured save by a full beard, which he has for some reason foregone. Would a beard have suited him? Moriarty thinks no. It surprises him, that thought: he had not expected to find himself in possession of an opinion on such an inconsequential matter. He is rather indignant at the event.

The visitor, for his part, is peering at Moriarty with great curiosity. He sets down a large black medical bag. His other hand is hidden in a pocket. Holding a pistol, of course.

Moriarty's throat itches. But he cannot spare attention for the physical.

"I applaud your costume's expediency," he says blandly. He is calculating angles and odds. He has no doubt about the extreme personal danger in which he lies. His visitor is a killer of considerable practice and skill. What can his purpose be, but to silence his opponent's tongue?

This is a fallacy. Moriarty knows it, and thinks it to himself nonetheless. He will not consider temptation. Either way, the result needs must be a final one.

This is not a pleasing thought.

"Indeed. Your landlady begged me to step up when I introduced myself a medical man. Doctor Basil Escott, at your service," the visitor says with an ironic bow. "Of course she did warn me you were likely to throw me out."

The visitor has seen through Moriarty's ruse. Of course he has. No man could have eluded the great detective for years, were he not capable of this. Still: the immediacy is gratifying to Moriarty. The man's brilliance has been a treat to him from the start, and he is not a disappointment now.

They have not met in person during all that time. There were times they came close: at Birlstone, at Lamberley, at Horsham. Yet the final step that might bring them face to face again was always avoided.

Why? Because then, as now, such a meeting would have necessitated action.

It is very inconvenient. Moriarty is not pleased: if he acts now, his plans for Culverton Smith must collapse. Yet he cannot fail to act. Cold anger rises, and is forced down. This has been Moriarty's resolution: Culverton Smith shall not walk free.

"I suppose I should bestir myself, then," Moriarty says drily. "She is no doubt listening anxiously."

The visitor reaches for the door, pockets the key. There will be no retreat. They both know it.

"I will tell her you were asleep. That I waited for you to wake."

Moriarty lifts his gun. He can still keep his hand quite steady. A keen observer might note the effort it takes, after three days' deprivation. He considers this of little matter. "The key."

The visitor does not hesitate: this is not a man who hesitates. He came here resolved to bring a conclusion; he will not avoid it. He is here because he cannot risk avoiding it any longer.

It is a truth neither of them can escape, were either of them in the habit of refusing truth. 

They are not.

The key flies towards Moriarty in an underhanded throw. It is caught, barely. 

At this less-than-a-failure, Moriarty's consternation is considerable. It does not improve when the visitor remarks upon his weakness: "You are not at your best." 

He is, indeed, quite compromised. He does not appreciate that fact in the least. "No. Is that not why you chose this moment?" 

It's rather a churlish question, is it not? Even great detectives may be quite churlish at times, when prevailed upon in their sick-bed by an opponent who might, after all, have come at a less inconvenient time.

"No. But the moment seemed opportune." There is amusement in the visitor's narrow eyes. "Knowing your quarry's methods, I might have been concerned for your life, had you not sent Major Moran away."

Moriarty's head sways slightly on his shoulders. This is not merely weakness: it is a habit of his, a physical tic. Had a doctor of sufficient skill investigated it, a physiological cause might have been found. Neither of the men in the gloomy room are aware of this, though. They both only know that it is a habit of Moriarty's, this swaying movement, often performed in amusement or in thought. 

It is Major Moran (Ret'd), his fellow lodger, he is thinking of now. "His talents are many, but alas, he has little by way of pretence and subterfuge."

"He will be returning this afternoon, will he not?" 

This visitor, this enemy, is very well-informed. Very little passes him by. This is pleasant to Moriarty, despite the inconvenience it presents. Consider a man who will take pleasure in such things! "So he will." 

"I am of course aware," says the visitor, "that Inspector Morton has been keeping an unobtrusive eye on your rooms. For certain definitions of 'unobtrusive', that is."

"You're taking quite the chance, my dear Rache." A cough escapes Moriarty's throat, following the words. Both men ignore it.

James Moriarty is not in the habit of addressing people as 'my dear', save in condescension. He is not condescending now. This form of address, and the chosen name – the title – are, of course, a deliberate reminder.

"Danger is part of my trade." 

One might judge the man calling himself 'Rache' for such a trite statement. But a trite truth is still a truth, after all, so we shall let it pass.

"The moment we move beyond this stand-still," Moriarty says calmly, "it is no longer danger. It is inevitable destruction." 

This, too, is a truth. This, too, is a trite one. Moriarty knows, has known from the start. His visitor knew before he came. He counted on it. Is counting on it now.

The visitor accepts the diagnosis, spoken and unspoken, with a simple nod and a narrow smile. There is no doubt in him, either. He has made his decision. "For one or both of us, to be sure."

"You smile," Moriarty comments, the other man's thoughts perfectly clear to him. "I agree; to bring destruction upon the other, we must each accept the possibility of our own demise."

The man known as 'Rache' lifts a hand in a gesture of demonstration. "Now it is you who is smiling."

The dry skin of Moriarty's lips is indeed stretching, straining. They are, indeed, both smiling. 

Moriarty is not a man to smile often, or easily. That is well known, of course. Less well known – how could it be otherwise, for a figure who must remain hidden? – is his counterpart's inclination. He is not one to commonly smile, either. He finds his life not much conducive to such a thing.

He is not lacking for challenge. He is not lacking for companionship. Yet true amusement is rare, and contentment is a thing he has not tasted. He does not expect to.

This, too, is a sentiment these two men share.

Moriarty's head sways again, without his conscious will. It is infuriating to him, this weakness. He rests himself against the head of the bed, resentful of the need. "It has been an intellectual treat to me, this affair of ours."

The man who has chosen to call himself nothing but 'Rache' bows slightly. "Indeed. I don't wish to take any extreme measure. It grieves me. Yet for the sake of the fight against the monsters from the Pit, whom you call royalty, I must. If you will not stand clear, then I must."

There is no surprise in this. It is merely the fact of the matter, which has been obvious from the moment the man entered Moriarty's rooms. Yet Moriarty is angry. What right to claim grief at being forced to extreme measures, from the very man who forced the situation!

This, of course, is only Moriarty's view. The other man views things rather differently. Who is it that forced this outcome but the man so relentless in his pursuit, the Restorationist cause now requires his removal as much as, nay, more than that of any one individual of royal blood?

The one called 'Rache' will not hesitate to kill if he must. They know it both, the one in the bed and the one by the door, and the tension that is strung between them reflects it.

"You must be aware you will not be permitted to walk from these rooms alive." Moriarty does not emphasize this statement by flickering his eyes towards his revolver. For another man, he would have. Not for this one, who needs no such obvious reminders.

It still pleases him, that. Even now.

Watch them: two stubborn men, among the most brilliant minds of the century, come to this impasse that neither of them wished. Watch them on the precipice. 

Shall we watch them fall?

For after all, the challenge has been made. Must not one of them prevail over the other, now – or else, must not both of them perish?

"Yet you have not shot me." It is the visitor who takes the metaphorical step back, delaying the inevitable. "You don't wish to compromise your case against Culverton Smith."

No, Moriarty does not wish to, indeed. Very emphatically not. He is quite furious about it. Yet his visitor has left him no choice.

"Don't I?" asks Moriarty, softly. "You are by far the more valuable prize."

By someone's reckoning, this is true. For Moriarty, the man is not a prize. He is something else altogether.

A thin smile curves 'Rache''s narrow lips. "You would allow the man who attempted to destroy you go free, merely to capture me? I am most flattered, my dear detective. Most flattered indeed, after you've gone to such lengths." 

"Lengths, yes." Not the portrayal of a madman: that is trivial. The fasting; the deprivation – those have required an effort. "I am curious – have you ever had occasion to attempt such a thing?" 

"Once," says 'Rache'. He does not elaborate. He adds instead, "Though I found foregoing tobacco the most irksome aspect. You, of course, are not a smoker." 

The never-smoked pipe: an error of Moriarty's – underestimating his opponent during their first encounter. It galls him to be reminded of it. Yet he hears the question in the statement, intellectual curiosity reciprocated, and cannot resist.

"Tea, and coffee, before any other sustenance. It will not prevent me from acting as I must."

"I did not expect it would." 

It is, Moriarty is thinking, a pity to destroy such a man. Yet a worthy triumph to achieve.

It is, the visitor is thinking, a pity to destroy such a man. Yet a necessity, and a victory to be proud of.

Two men in a sick-room are torn between regret and elation at the inevitable culmination they are headed towards.

The visitor's shrewd eyes scan Moriarty, the bed, and the room, resting briefly on an ivory box sitting in the table. This is the item directly responsible for James Moriarty's current condition. This is the item Culverton Smith sent him, with the intention that it should break his mind. Slowly, as these things are wont to do.

This is the item James Moriarty did not, after all, touch, but which prompted him to feign madness, to forego sustenance, and to don a considerable amount of make-up.

"A god's eye, they say," the visitor comments. "Looted from some temple, no doubt." He is quite interested in the artefact resting within that ivory box. 

Moriarty allows the diversion. "A primitive god," he agrees. "It is not the only one of its kind. You have not encountered its like before?"

"I have. He sent it to you, to drive you insane as it did the men on his plantation."

Moriarty's mouth twists briefly. "By attempting to destroy me, Culverton Smith sealed his own demise. The method only strengthens my determination. Yet I was determined already. He murdered a man who had sought my advice. With that act he put himself into my purview."

One might call this a mission statement. Yet Moriarty's visitor has come to suspect there is more to it. More than this, and the mental stimulation it provides.

"Your profession is not without its merits," he acknowledges.

"It provides a satisfying distraction, an occupation for the mind."

"Yes. So does mine, I find." 

The statement is very dry. Moriarty does not entirely appreciate it. "You would not be following it otherwise," he says, rather acerbically. "Conviction can carry one only so far."

"A depressed mind would not be suited to this kind of work, no." The visitor knows whereof he speaks. It is true for both of them. "As for Culverton Smith, do you mean to expose his other deeds? This attempt upon you is far from the only such act he committed. As you no doubt are aware of."

Moriarty – perhaps to no one's surprise – is willing to continue this conversational thread. The subject matter has occupied some space in his mind, these recent days and weeks, after all. "You mean the fact that the atrocities on Mr Smith's plantation, which have been attributed to primitive Oriental gods, have in fact been instigated by the pious Mr Smith himself?"

This is a story you will already know: after all, the disaster in Sumatra has been widely publicised. There has been great public outrage over those primitive gods who dared devastate a plantation run by a subject of Great Victoria herself. 

The man called 'Rache' is rather looking forward to examining in more detail the results of the punishing expedition sent by the Great Crowned Ones of Europe. For after all, the methods they employ to punish what, in terms of species, must count for their own, may well be methods that could be of use to the Restorationist cause. 

He hopes to employ those methods, one day, against the very crowned heads in question themselves.

"You are no doubt appalled," Moriarty continues, fixing 'Rache' with an unflinching gaze, "by the callous destruction of so many minds. Yet the Deep Ones were used merely for a tool. For a scapegoat." This is what the papers do not know: all those dead, all those driven insane, merely to hide among them the death of a rival. Moriarty draws his upper lip into a half-sneer. It is an eloquent one. "To be sure, did I wish to merely dispose of Mr Smith, all I would need to do would be to bring such blasphemy to the Crown's attention."

This is why Moriarty thinks little of the Restorationist cause: he thinks no better of the humans who would replace the creatures in power than he does of those creatures' dreadful selves. 

He is, in fact, a rather terrible misanthrope.

It is a sharp point, without question: the depravity of humankind. One Moriarty's visitor knows better than to attempt to dispute. This is, after all, not the kind of argument that can be won. It is a matter of faith.

He, despite his analytical mind, has such faith. Moriarty, with the same mind, does not.

"This is your last word, then." the visitor says, and nothing else. What else could be said, after all?

It sounds weary, does it not? It is. Yet the man's determination is no less for it. More, one might say.

Moriarty, meanwhile, is warming to his topic. "Let me add some more words, then, if it pleases you: the world is obsessed with powers, and with those who possess them. Yet as you see, an inconvenient device in the wrong hands may cause much the same devastation." The viciousness in his voice surprises even Moriarty himself. He has not spoken of such things with such frankness before. He coughs briefly, then continues. "Crime, in general, is dull and commonplace. The world is full of small people committing small and boring evils. Nor are those of the blood royal any more intriguing than their petty human counterparts. Their deeds may make for more spectacular vice, yet the acts in question remain merely vulgar, containing not the least bit of cleverness. Occasionally a case arises which challenges my mind, and those are the times I live for."

He means, in the main, the man before him. Moriarty's eyes are fever-bright now, without even the addition of belladonna to enlarge his pupils. 

His visitor, meanwhile, is drawing conclusions, of the kind one can only draw in person. He has not had the pleasure of close observation before, and finds it unexpectedly enlightening.

He is appalled, to be sure, by Moriarty's callous disinterest in the kind of destruction the creatures calling themselves royal, calling themselves gods, can wreak. The tearing-apart of human souls. The devouring, slow or quick. The long, eternal torment. And yet.

And yet, the tirade he has just heard clarifies several things in his mind. None of them may be of any use to him, but they are enlightening, nonetheless.

He did not know before now just what was driving his opponent. He thought it boredom alone. He was wrong.

For why, after all, is James Moriarty a consulting detective? A man with his mind might do anything, need serve no one, and he holds no great regard for those monsters 'Rache' is fighting. 

And now, Moriarty's visitor knows that in fact, his opponent disdains the supernatural powers ruling the world. That he ranks them not one step above brute force in his estimation.

Why, indeed. Some days, Moriarty asks himself that self-same question.

"Is that why you chose your profession? Mind over matter? Logic over powers?"

Moriarty huffs, a display of wry humour few would know to expect from him. "I cannot deny that there is a clear intellectual appeal in the construction of crimes that must remain undetected. Perhaps you have chosen the better part." There is a wistfulness in Moriarty's voice. He did not mean to display it. It escaped his control, nonetheless.

A sharp, hissing sound comes from the mouth of the visitor. He did not mean to allow it to escape, either. Yet his offence is too great. "That is not why I am doing this."

Moriarty knows this, of course. "It's also not _not_ why you're doing this."

The visitor's lips press together into a thin line. It is he, now, who is uncomfortably aware of emotions he would rather have suppressed. "Touché." 

He also knows, now, that Moriarty is not in fact tempted by the role 'Rache' has taken. He chooses to lash out. "I understand," he says drily, "that you needs must be seen doing what you are doing. It would not suit your ego at all to hide in the shadows. For in a world ruled by strange and unfathomable powers, you alone are the proof that one needs no metaphysical abilities to see further, to do what ordinary people can't. Is that the truth of it, then, Mr Moriarty?"

Does it sound like disdain? Moriarty hears disdain in the man's voice, but not only that. Had it been nothing but, the clarity of his view would have been uncomfortable indeed. What he hears instead, though, is disdain wrapping around a devastating understanding. A reluctant approval, even.

Their minds, after all, are not at odds nearly as much as they might be.

"It is the truth," Moriarty, therefore, says simply, "that brings us to our current impasse."

It is the truth behind the life Moriarty chose, in a world ruled by powers vast enough to destroy a mind: to prove that mind's own powers, over such a world. Nothing less, for him, will do.

Moriarty is public, seen. The papers applaud his feats of logic, his marvellous successes. His is a power other than the supernatural: he is the embodiment of it. Failure undermines him, but his defeat of his Restorationist opponent will spread his name even wider. 

Beyond it, Moriarty knows, he will never again find its like. The curious finality of victory is as craved as it is dreaded.

This cannot last. He must step forward, or step back. And he cannot step back from being seen. 

Finality is closing in on him. 

"Then you already know," says the visitor, very quietly, "that you, too, exist in opposition to them. Your mind, which seeks to promote logic over terror. Your fortitude, which endures their strength. Your submission to their will, which remains only superficial. Even not opposing your Queen openly, how long do you think it will be until she realises? You have her patronage now, but you must know where it must end."

He sees this very clearly, the man who calls himself 'Rache'. He cannot, does not wish to, contemplate how or why Moriarty might not. They cannot be so un-alike. He refuses. 

And he is stubborn, this one: his refusal to accept that which must not be accepted has taken him all the way from an unremarkable family of country squires to the life of an infamous Restorationist with green blood staining his thin, precise fingers.

So here they stand, at an impasse. They have been here since the visitor entered. All the understanding they have achieved changes nothing, only makes more clear the truth that neither of them may stop.

There can be no compromise between the hunter and the prey. Moriarty's visitor is of that opinion himself: he calls himself 'Rache', a hunting-dog, and will surely never relent in his pursuit.

He should not be surprised, then, that Moriarty will not relent either.

For a moment, both of them allow themselves to imagine a hunting-team – two hunters, joined in pursuit of the same prey. The joy of such a companion –

It is not to be, they both think, in the same instant: their pursuits are incompatible. This is only the prolonging of the moment before destruction must occur. 

Moriarty's revolver is trained on the visitor still. The man cannot act without being shot – but he, of course, has a pistol in his own pocket. 

"I –" Moriarty coughs again. This time it doesn't stop: he has spoken too much. His strained throat is reacting after all. He coughs again, and again. It is an unpleasant hacking of nothing at all. It shakes his limbs, makes his gun quiver in his hands, makes his eyes water enough he is forced to blink, to wipe.

It is the very last thing a man needs in a situation such as this. Yet he cannot stop it.

His opponent, of course, takes advantage. Moriarty sees it through a blur: quick strides, too quick for him to aim and shoot before the man has his wrist in his grasp. The gun is taken from him. Is sent skidding over the carpeted floor, sent out of reach.

The coughing fit subsides. 'Rache' is sitting on Moriarty's bed now. And this, Moriarty knows: three days of deprivation mean the man has unquestionably superior strength. 

This, Moriarty knows: he is at a disadvantage. It does not daunt him. After all, a man in reach for killing is also in reach to be killed. 

"Let us see, then," Moriarty murmurs under his breath, "which one it is."

"Your make-up is flaking," the visitor says, inconsequentially.

"No doubt." The answer is a reflex. Moriarty's brain is busy cataloguing options. "I should have had to redo it, of course, before my friend Moran returned."

"Allow me, then." 

Did 'Rache' plan to make such an offer? Of course not. Then why does he make it now? That is, of course, precisely what Moriarty is considering. Is the man still hoping to change Moriarty's mind? Is he squeamish about attempting murder on his opponent, after all? 

Hardly a creditable supposition. But then, why? Merely stalling for time? This whole encounter has been nothing but.

Yet it has not been without its rewards. For each of them in his own way, it seems.

"Be my guest," Moriarty says, in light of this consideration. "The make-up box is under the bed." He does not hope to make his visitor bend and present his unguarded head. The sardonic smile he receives does not surprise him, not at all. 

A foot brings the box out from under the bed. One hand reaches down, the other keeping hold of Moriarty's wrist. Their eyes never lose track of each other.

Then the box is open between them. 'Rache' lets go of Moriarty after all, nimble fingers taking out supplies. Fingertips lift Moriarty's chin as he peers more closely at the layers upon Moriarty's face.

It brings them very close together. Close enough to feel the air of each breath. 

"Very convincing," the man – once an actor, after all – murmurs. "Yet perhaps my expertise may be of use to you."

A rag is dragged over Moriarty's face, more carefully than Moriarty expected. The surface layers of his disguise are wiped off.

Moriarty is used to doing such tasks for himself. Having it done to him, and by this man, has him startlingly aware of every detail: warm fingertips against his jaw, the tissue swiped carefully over his face, the man's face, very close to his own.

Against his will, Moriarty's lips part.

He is not sure why physical proximity should have such an effect on him. It does, nonetheless.

He notes with interest the dilation of the other man's pupils, the slight flush colouring his high cheekbones, the quickening of the pulse at his throat. Moriarty is not the only one so affected, then. 

Something flashes in the visitor's eyes: a decision. He leans forward. In the same moment that Moriarty deduces his intentions, he puts them into action.

The press of two sets of lips against each other elicits an unexpected rush of blood, loud in Moriarty's ears. Exhilaration floods Moriarty's veins, energising him. And he sees the same sensation flush the other's skin.

This is not an attempt at seduction, at changing a mind. This is not a ploy. It is – Moriarty knows this; knows, too, that neither of them would tolerate it otherwise – the testing of a theory. 

The question being tested: how far the physical reaction elicited by their closeness may be taken. Whether intellectual fascination can imbue an otherwise uninteresting physical act with new and attractive properties. The result, so far: a clear yes.

It changes nothing, otherwise. It is only another bit of information, of knowledge, of discovery added to those gathered from this meeting of minds.

And of bodies, strange though that thought is, to both these men.

The visitor moves forward again, and their mouths meet for the second time. True: to prove a result meaningful, one must, after all, be able to repeat it. In the press of lips against lips is no reason why it should cause sensations such as it does, yet to Moriarty, it is as thrilling as the solution of a difficult case, and holds the same revelatory delight.

Moriarty allows his lips to part slightly, taking the other man's lower lip between his and running his tongue over it in experimentation, tasting tobacco overlaying the flavour of human skin and saliva. The man makes a small noise at the back of his throat. 

They are both prepared. Moriarty lifts his hand to the man's neck even as he feels 'Rache' press his fingers against the back of his own head.

Two necks, so easily broken. Mutual destruction, so easily achieved. A worthy end, perhaps, shared with the one mind each of them has found that can equal his own.

The kiss continues, at the edge of destruction. Finality hovers within both their grasp, and is delayed for yet another moment, a foray of tongue into Moriarty's mouth, Moriarty's teeth digging into the man's lip. Moriarty's skin feels almost feverish, the heat rising with every movement. He is suddenly excruciatingly aware even of the slight press, through the bedsheets, of the man's backside against the side of Moriarty's thigh.

When the moment breaks, the ending will come. They will have defeated one another. This is the thought running through Moriarty's mind, through the visitor's mind. 

At the same moment, they gasp. They pull back.

Their mouths open; their hands remain in place for the attack that neither has yet made. Both their faces are flushed. Their lips slightly swollen. They each find it gratifying, to see such effect upon the other's face. But that is an afterthought, right now, in light of what has just, for the first time, occurred to them both.

"You must be seen to defeat me," the visitor murmurs, his lip quirking. "That is what you require, is it not? That is all you require."

"It occurs to me," Moriarty says in turn, his voice hoarse, "that you do not, in fact, care either way what I am seen to do. Will you accommodate me, then? Do you wish to die?"

It is not, in fact, a threat. It is an offer, and a generous one.

"Do you?" 'Rache' returns the offer, with equal generosity. "No doubt a death scene could be made to serve either way. Your name would rise. And so would mine, in the right circles."

Martyrs, in the eyes of those who see things that way. Will it happen like that, two mortal enemies finding their death, each at the cost of his life defeating the other? The detective, at last bringing down the cleverest criminal – and the Restorationist, felling the agent the Royals have sent for him?

It could happen like that. It can. They need only pick a suitably dramatic locale for such an event. It would be spoken about for years, for decades to come.

"An intriguing proposition," says Moriarty, "is it not?"

Their eyes meet fully. Moriarty says nothing more. There is no need.

"It must be led up to," says the visitor, finally. "For full effect. Shall I speak to my friend? You will recall he has some talent in the realm of dramatic presentation."

"Only for the very ending," Moriarty cautions. "I will pursue you. Hunt you down. You must not make it easy. It must be entirely real." Only in such ways is success guaranteed.

And it would not be satisfying otherwise, after all. Not to these men. Yet the ending, the inevitable one they must meet? That need not be such a final one after all.

Finality, in the end, is overrated.

'Rache' nods and lets go of Moriarty. "In that case," he says drily, "I should re-apply your make-up now. For after all, you have a murderer to trap."  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The door clicks shut. The visitor has left. Moriarty rises from his bed and creeps towards the door on somewhat unsteady feet. He listens for the steps descending outside. Listens, too, for Mrs Hudson – alerted by the screaming fit Moriarty affected moments ago – to accost the man.

"I'm ever so sorry, my good woman," he hears the visitor say in a breathy, long-suffering voice entirely unlike his own: the persona of Doctor Basil Escott. "I was moved by your entreaties and examined your lodger while he was asleep, but it seems I have awoken him. You were not exaggerating the strengths of his hysterical delusions."

Mrs Hudson's voice is full of worry as she presses the supposed doctor for details. 

"I'm afraid it's every bit as serious as you feared," 'Doctor Escott' says. "But one cannot force help on a man who refuses it. Does he not have loved ones who may convince him? It's all I can advise. Good day, madam."

Satisfied, Moriarty turns away from the door. His eyes fall upon the Albion Star on the floor, on the advertisement now most prominently visible:

> Dr Griffin's "Skin Eraser"! Are there moles or birthmarks marring your beauty? Are your pores too large? Even sunburn, even the whitest of scars – all may be Erased! They will be your secrets now, for no one to see. Visit Griffin & Wells in Iping and Make Every Blemish Invisible with the new Scientific Ointment!

  
He returns to his bed. The trap for Culverton Smith is still in place, soon to reach a denouement Moriarty is very much looking forward to. Finality still has a place, after all, for such lesser enemies.

But beyond it, there is another prospect now. A better thing to look forward to.

Moriarty smiles.


End file.
